


Win, Thrive, Soar

by humansandotherpeople



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Canon-typical dismemberment, Disability, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, accessibility, canon-typical (internalised) ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 20:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15871650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humansandotherpeople/pseuds/humansandotherpeople
Summary: From the end of season 2 to just before season 3. In a world where everyone has wings. Well, some people have fewer wings than others.





	Win, Thrive, Soar

 

They’re pulling on Silver’s feathers and it’s already almost too much for him. He is reminded of when he told Captain Flint of his exceptionally low pain threshold when he was facing torture the second-to-last time. Threats of torture happen to him far too often.

A few feathers come loose with sharp stings of pain and this isn’t even what they’re planning to use on him, they’re just getting his wing into position. “I will say anything,” he had claimed then, but this time there is no lie he can tell them that will make them let up, none that wouldn’t mean selling the majority of his fellow crew members out. He can’t bear this, but he can’t bear them on his conscience either. 

To stop himself from talking he screams. It's not loud enough to mask the impact of the axe on flesh, or the shattering of hollow bones. The pain is infinitely worse than the knowledge that he will never be the same again. He is aware, from about the third time the axe comes down, that that wing is irrevocably ruined, that he won't fly again, and he doesn't care. He would gladly give an arm and a leg along with the wing if it only made the pain stop. Would he sacrifice most of the crew? It seems ever more likely with every strike, except that he's not sure he could still speak after all that screaming, or that he could stop screaming long enough to speak. Are they even interested anymore? Are they interested in anything but causing him pain?

When it stops he can't explain it to himself as anything other than having died. It's a pity pain doesn't stop at death after all. His wing is still screaming with it. He himself has stopped screaming, too exhausted for it now. And what's the use if he's dead?

Somebody lifts him up and arranges his mangled wing into a position that'll make him easier to carry and won't involve it dragging on the floor or hitting walls. A new wave of pain explodes in it, and it's finally too much for Silver. He rattles down names, random names of crew members. Tears stream down his face. Everybody he hasn't named will die. He's not even sure that he picked the names of living crew in his frenzy to get names out. He's pretty sure Randall slipped in there and now he is taking up the space that could have saved a living man.

He is both relieved and disgusted with himself when they set him down. This must mean it was enough. His selling out his brothers will make it stop. It's over.

Except it isn't over. Howell's instruments look just the same as torture implements and in effect, that's what they are. Howell is going to hurt him with them. He understands, by now, that hurting him is no longer the objective here, and yet, that's what's going to keep happening. He can't help but fight back. It's not even so much that they are going to take his wing – he knows the mangled mess on his left side is no longer, and won't be under the most favourable circumstances, any use – just the horrid mixture of pity and pain they are inflicting on him.

He sees Flint's concerned face last _. I have stolen your gold,_ he thinks,  _don't be fucking concerned for me._ Then Howell's saw graces bone and he finally, finally blacks out.

When he awakens, the world is wrong. His wing is gone. The crew have elected him quartermaster for being brave and selfless. Flint is no longer so concerned, but amicable. Glad he is awake again.  _I have stolen your gold,_  he thinks,  _and it didn't even mean the plan with the girl worked out. Don't be fucking glad you have my company._

He needs to tell him something about the gold, though. Because they are going back to Nassau, and there Jack will be with Flint's gold, and if he doesn't have an explanation, he will look for one. And if he finds the truth Silver will lose more than just one wing. That is what this is about. Pure self-preservation. Not the perverse need to break Flint out of his spell of friendliness at all.

Flint's plumage actually bristles with his anger as his feathers stand on end when he learns that the Urca gold was taken from him. Silver is immensely glad that he did not in some rush of madness confess the truth. Part of him believes that he would have deserved any reaction that would have provoked from Flint, but whatever form it would have taken, it would have been a painful one. And Silver has had enough pain recently. Still has.

But Flint's openness, his softness, is gone. Now that he no longer has it, Silver misses it. He will miss it until he finally makes that confession, they kill a shark, two sharks, and the wind returns. But before that, he has to try to keep him from killing himself by throwing himself into battle in his grief and rage. And first, he has to learn how to get around the world again. And that, in turn, starts with one ship.

Howell has prescribed bed rest, as he is weak from blood loss, set off balance by his new number of limbs, and has a wound liable to open if he moves too much. Silver does not heed his advice. The captain's cabin becomes an ever more oppressive place with every hour he is confined to it, especially since said captain's mood has turned. As soon as Flint has left it and taken his watchful gaze with him, Silver gets up. Every movement tugs at what is left of his wing., at the bandages, and at the wound. He nearly falls over on his first few steps, thanks to his dizziness and the unfamiliar weight distribution of his body. Howell does know what he is talking about, but that doesn't mean he'll just obey him.

He has the option of just snooping around in the cabin, but suppresses the urge to gamble on what will happen if Flint returns to find him rifling through his personal things. It should not be so hard to remember that there is enough pain in his life and he doesn't need to court more of it. Not when it is there all the time to remind him, sitting over his shoulder like a witch's familiar.

Instead he sneaks out of this dangerous, disconcerting, cage-like space. It doesn't take him long to realise that he won't get that far. He has never before given much thought to how high up the deck is, how deep down the hold and the quarters that he is supposed to be the master of now. And he can't even get to them.

He was so eager to get out, he doesn't know what was supposed to be the next step anyway, and whether it necessarily involved getting to any of the places on this damn ship that have suddenly become unreachable. But it seems unacceptable anyway. He is determined to get on deck now. Once again he's not sure what he'll do once there, but that's secondary.

He has an idea of how he'll do it. He isn't the first on this ship with this particular predicament, after all. Randall had never had a particular need to visit the captain's cabin, so he is not so sure about the way to the galley, but he knows from there there are ladders leading to various levels of the ship. He never paid much attention to that, but it should be pretty much level with where he is now. There is always a way out, and Silver will always take it. He heads for the galley, avoiding his shipmates. He does not want to see worry or pity, and he most certainly does not want to be offered help.

It turns out he is a bit above the galley after all. He finds himself at the top of a drop that he has flown over hundreds of times on his way down to the galley. He has never actually stood here at the edge. Why would he? Now, he just stands there for minutes. Then he sits down on it, stares down some more. It really isn't that deep. If he hung from the edge his feet would almost touch the planks down there. He turns around, grabs hold of the edge and lets his feet drop into the emptiness. His wings want to open on instinct to catch him, but he can't let them. He's sure the stretch of it would tear open the wound.

He dangles, feeling stupid. If somebody has cleared away the ladders following Randall's demise, he won't be able to make it back this way. Not without asking for help. On the other hand, stubbornness won't allow him to turn back now. Also, he doesn't know if he has the strength to pull himself back up and doesn't particularly want to find out. So he lets go and he falls.

It's not a long drop, and yet the shockwave of hitting the floor travels through his entire body, hitting his wing stump like an axe. He just barely stops himself from crying out.

Once he has collected himself he hurries along. Better actually get there if he's gone to this length already. He sighs with relief as he sees the ladders still leaning in the galley, one leading up, one down. And then, before he can start climbing up, he finds something else. Almost trips over it. Somebody has leaned it against the foot of the ladder. Of course Randall wasn't wearing it when he died, he was stabbed in his sleep. The crew must have decided against putting it on him when they sent him off to his watery grave. Were they thinking of Silver already when they kept it?

It's Randall's sailcloth wing prosthesis. He hadn't been able to fly any great stretches with it, only glide down somewhere or get into the air a bit with a great amount of flapping. But then, maybe he had never liked the prosthesis enough to learn properly. And even if it wasn't possible to get more out of it than Randall had, that would be better than nothing. Even though the cloth is stained from Randall's work in the kitchen, and the leather belts that held it on his stump still smell unpleasantly like him, Silver looks at the contraption and sees something like hope.

Silver has watched and occasionally helped Randall put the thing on often enough that the general process is familiar to him. Carrying it out on himself is an entirely different matter. He also knows that wearing it over a wound as fresh as his would probably be a very bad idea, much less actually using it, seeing as even moving the stump without anything on it is nothing short of agonising. As much as he wants to reassure himself that he can have this in the future, Howell would have his head if he found out he had tried it on now. And that is just Howell. Flint has pretty much teamed up on him with the surgeon and he is anger incarnate. Silver's serious addiction to gambling with danger only goes so far.

He doesn't put the wing on, and accepts begrudgingly it'll be days at least before he can, but he doesn't quite have it in him to let go of it either. So he manoeuvres it up the ladder when he resumes his original plan of getting on deck. Maybe he can draw up the ladder and use it to make his way back to the captain's cabin. He isn't clear on how he would avoid being seen walking around dragging a long ladder in addition to clinging to the large cloth and wood contraption that is the prosthesis, though. Perhaps something more practical will come to mind once he gets there. Something that also doesn't involve anyone's help. He still tugs at the ladder when he arrives at the top of it. It doesn't move. Naturally, it was bolted down. Of course they couldn't risk something so large and heavy being loose and subjected to the rocking of the ship.

Silver sighs, tucks the fake wing under his other arm, and tries to enjoy being out in the open without worrying too much about having to talk to anyone. The air certainly isn’t as stifling as down in the cabins, and the feeling of being closed in is slowly subsiding. He is still trapped on this ship, though, without even the option to try his luck and fly away. Trapped with all these people who absurdly see some value in him and trapped with their silent or not so silent promises to take care of him.

He glances up at the crow's nest, which he now has no chance of ever reaching again. The man on watch duty has his eyes on the horizon, as he should, not on the deck, as Silver tended to whenever he didn't fall asleep on a watch. Perhaps he would get to explore new ways of getting around the ship unseen after all. Fate could be kind sometimes.

"Silver?" Howell's voice, the beating of wings and the flicker of lantern light from behind him. He takes it back; fate is a cruel bitch always, no exceptions.

"Yes, well, who else has this particular silhouette?" Silver retorts, gesturing to the empty space on his left side while he turns to face his benevolent tormentor.

He groans inwardly. Howell hasn't landed on deck alone. He is flanked by the looming figure that is the captain.

"You weren't in my cabin," Flint states quietly. He leaves the obvious fact hanging in the night air between them and doesn’t add that they have been looking for him. It is understood.

"Against my recommendations," Howell adds. "Whether to heed them is your prerogative, obviously. But if you wanted some fresh air you should have taken somebody to look out for you while you are still off balance. To take you back if you can't -"

Flint steps into the light of Howell's lantern and places a steadying hand on his arm. "I'll see him back to my cabin."

A significant look and a tight nod from the captain. Howell is dismissed. Reluctantly the surgeon follows the silent order, taking flight again and heading back to his quarters. Already in the air, he looks over his shoulder back at Silver clutching Randall's old false wing and calls: "And don't you dare put that on before you have my say-so!"

Once the rush of air under long pinions has subsided, Flint says: "So much for your prerogative." There is a humourous little twist to his voice that Silver won't admit he has missed.

"Oh, I didn't believe him that in the first place. After all, when it comes down to it all the prerogatives are yours on this ship."

"We're all free men here," Flint retorts half-heartedly.

"We are?" Even the ones who can't just take to the sky when we get enough of the cruelty of the sea, or of you? Silver wants to add. Instead he goes with: "Even the ones whom the captain himself drags back into captivity?"

"I haven't dragged you back yet," Flint replies.

"I thought you would rather argue with the degree to which it is captivity."

"Oh, I certainly see how you would feel" Flint's eyes wander to the spot where Silver's wing should be for an instant, then they are back on his face, "trapped."

Silver shivers. After how refreshing the night air feels coming out of the stuffy quarters, it always comes as a bit of a surprise that it can actually get quite cold with the sea breeze.

"Take me back to my lovely golden cage then, if you must. Steady me if I stumble."

Flint raises an eyebrow and, with a minute yet unmistakable movement, offers his arm.

"If I stumble, I said. Contrary to what Howell seems to believe, I can still walk," snarls Silver. The way it makes Flint flinch back almost makes him feel sorry for him.

"Follow me, then," says Flint and walks on without looking back at him.

Silver is left staring at his long reddish brown wings, dark grey in the low light, folded back neat and straight. In some places the feathers grow jaggedly in directions unbefitting his posture. Almost certainly battle scars underneath that. Everything is, with him. But despite these the wings are whole, ready to spread and catch the wind and leave Silver behind for good.

He hastens to catch up with Flint. He does stumble a bit in the process, but luckily he catches himself before the weight of his remaining wing can make him crash to the floor on his right, and even more luckily, Flint doesn't notice, or pretends not to.

Then he stops abruptly and Silver almost runs into his elegant wings. He stands in front of a drop not unlike the one Silver had braved not long before. Same ship builders, same bastards.

Flint hesitated for a moment before he suggested: "Didn't Randall have ladders in the galley? Should I -"

"They're bolted down."

"Oh. Of course."

Before Silver can suggest letting himself down the same way he had on the deeper levels – hanging from the edge, then dropping – Flint steps into his space and reaches under his arms, under the space where his wings meet his back, and wraps his arms around him. And then they're in the air.

"Don't make this difficult," Flint whispers into his hair, barely audible over the rush of air under his wings. And then those wings fold back and Silver has solid boards under his feet again. Then, finally, Flint lets go of him. Silver didn't have time to either wriggle free of his grip or hold onto him. He closes his mouth, which has fallen open sometime in the past few seconds, maybe to protest. Then he commences following his captain. There is really no other choice. Ship of free men indeed.

  


Two weeks later Silver is allowed to wear the wing prosthesis he took on that day by a reluctant, sarcastic Howell and an almost openly worried Flint. The latter is halfway through what Silver was convinced was going to be an offer to help him strap it on, when he visibly startles, remembering himself. So Silver gets Howell tying it on deftly instead.

Its straps aren't really any more uncomfortable than anything else that comes near the scarring tissue, but the weight is unexpected and less welcome than he'd thought. It seems unlikely that a bit of wood and cloth would be so much heavier than his own wing, so much more foreign than a simple replacement of it. But then, the wing had had its own muscles to hold it up, not just to move it.

The prosthesis most certainly does not. It sticks out at an awkward angle until Silver adjusts it with his hands. Howell was right, he'll have to learn to walk with this thing – now that he's just got the hang of walking with nothing at that side – before he even thinks about flying with it. He'll have to do a lot of practicing. On the one hand, that's frustrating. On the other it means he can use this cabin to practice for now, whereas for flying attempts he will need the open air, and he is grimly relieved at the additional time before he'll have to try and fail to relearn basic movement in front of the crew.

This will still have to be in front of Flint, of course, as much of his recovery has been, by virtue of his cabin being the most private place on this ship, the place where he is least likely to be disturbed. And indeed, the captain's presence no longer disturbs him. Perhaps because Flint is too wrapped up in his own grief and building a pirate alliance that will preventively strike fear into the hearts of the colonial powers to spare him much pity.

Begrudgingly he accepts that maybe, in the future, he'll even have to ask for the help that Flint had been so clearly close to offering. It'll be a long time before he learns to put the prosthetic on properly by himself, and Howell will sometimes have better things to do, and Flint and he are always around each other anyway. He is not quite ready to admit to himself that he enjoyed the last time the captain laid hands on him to assist him down that drop between deck and captain's cabin.

Silver spends most of the next days swaying up and down the cabin. Sometimes, when the captain is out, he even spreads his wings – one with the help of his hands, the other the old-fashioned way – and tries to flap them. It's too slow and too asymmetric for him to see it ever taking him off the ground, and it hurts the wing stump besides. At least, unlike a proper take-off would, it doesn't disturb the charts and schedules on Flint's desk too much. The memory of what disturbing one feather in one book on that desk had brought down upon his head once is distant now, but it still has its effects.

One time, his wing exercises do manage to dislodge a slip of paper with a calculation on it from underneath a cup. He picks it up with less fumbling than would have been necessary only days ago, and avoids bumping the still extended prosthesis into anything. Despite his best efforts to pick up some seacraft in preparation for his role as quartermaster, the squiggles mean nothing to him. He puts the scrap back on top of the desk and places the cup on its edge.

He doesn't give the event much thought, but when he finally gets the fake wing off his aching stump and falls into exhausted, too warm sleep, he dreams of watching Flint write that note. Flint plucks a fresh, bronze quill from the tip of his wing for it. As he writes, the feather gets smaller, until it is a soft white down, nearly vanishing between his fingertips, where he still holds it and scribbles tiny words onto the paper.

Then Silver makes a wrong move and the feather slips from Flint's fingers and falls inexorably. He lets go of the paper to try and catch it and it, too, drops. Feather and paper don't simply trundle down to the floor. There is no floor. There is an abyss. Flint dives into it without hesitation to chase after the drifting items. Silver follows him without thinking. The beating of their wings drives their light prizes away from them at first, but it just so happens that the feather which Silver was grabbing for floats directly into Flint's hand, and the scrap of paper which Flint had almost reached is driven towards Silver, who takes hold of it.

It reads, in Flint's narrow hand,

  


Do you dare?

\- James

  


"James?" Silver reads out and Flint looks up and then flies closer, probably so as to hear him over the rushing wind, but Silver takes his closeness for his chance to prove that yes, he dares. He drifts even closer to Flint, grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls them together, close enough that he can feel Flint's warm breath from his slightly open mouth in his beard, on his face.

He takes a taste of that mouth for himself then, feels it give but not retreat with his own lips. 

"James," he says after drawing back only minimally. The name tastes exquisite in his mouth, but not as exquisite as kissing him felt, so he resumes doing that. He licks at his lips and then, when he lets him in, at his teeth and tongue. Flint gives back in turn and it's an incredible rushing sensation when his tongue pushes into his mouth.

Then he notices the rushing is air moving past him. They have forgotten to fly, and possibly how to fly, and are plummeting unstopped. The wind is tearing at Silver's wings. They're ripped up at an unnatural angle and he can't push back against the relentless stream of air. Flint is gone. It's just him and the fall. He knows in a moment his left wing will be torn out of its socket when he finally, mercifully, wakes up.

But has he woken up? He blinks at Flint's face floating above him in the darkness in great confusion.

"Did I wake you? I apologise," the face says and retreats.

"Must have..." Silver murmurs.

"I heard you say my given name. Thought you had called me. But you must have been talking in your sleep." Even though Silver can't see him anymore, he's sure he hears a raised eyebrow in his voice.

"Dear departed James," Silver hastens to explain, even in his sleep-addled state, "a boy from the home for poor orphans. Was like a brother to me in my young years."

Silver can't see him anymore, but he knows he's raising an eyebrow nonetheless. He feels it. Despite everything, he falls back asleep not long after, with not another word spoken.

The next day he decides he's sure enough on his feet, if not his wings, to brave the deck. Fuck that dream, he reasons. If he's not going to get to kiss Flint he's not going to fall uncontrollably either. He steps out into the light and could almost believe he is striking an imposing figure in it if it wasn't for the ridiculous cloth wing that won't get him up any levels of the ship anyhow – he's going to have to clamber up somewhere or ask for help. Maybe he got sufficiently good at the latter to try. After all, he had got Flint to help him put the prosthesis on a few times now. That should be a transferable skill, shouldn't it?

He doesn't get to test that hypothesis, because there are stairs leading up to the deck. He climbs them, feeling dizzy, and discovers there are stairs everywhere the floor heights differ. Where there isn't enough space for stairs, there are ladders made of rope and planks, or even foot- and handholds hewn into the sides of the ship itself. Muldoon and the other carpenters have been hard at work, and some of the riggers too, judging by the inventive rope ladders.

Other than ropes, Silver determines that crates and barrels were used for materials, and some of the steps look as if the carpenters took a big chunk out of a prize ship's hull.

Silver gets through surveying the ship, through catching up with the crew, as if in another dream. He has no trouble getting anywhere and isn't tempted to use the prosthetic wing for anything but balancing himself once.

He isn't panicking. But somehow, when he returns to the Captain's cabin, slams the door shut and leans against it with his good side, his breaths come shallow and fast as if he's been running, or, well, panicking, anyway. There is probably what some would describe as a wild look in his eyes.

Flint is scribbling away in the log undisturbed, ignoring him, which is often a mercy. But right now Silver needs to talk about this, and strangely, there is no-one else on this ship he would trust with it but his captain. His captain, who has threatened his life multiple times and will again. The only one on this ship whose crew just spent two weeks' work on making his life easier, as far as he can see. He doesn't have his priorities straight. He doesn't care.

"Captain," he says.

"Yes," Flint says, still not looking up from the log, though he does stop writing.

"They built stairs for me," Silver says. He realizes his tone is pleading. For something. For understanding.

"Yes," Flint says again. He carefully places the quill on the blotting paper.

"Now I can't leave." Silver is desperate now.

"I would have guessed it greatly improved your ability to get where you want. Although still in a limited range, I admit."

"Not in a physical way. You know that. But I can't leave behind what they've built for me. Without me, it's useless, and without it, I'm useless. Not that I have much experience with usefulness, but I was just beginning to enjoy it, when, well..." He's not quite ready to say something witty about the wing. Maybe he will never be. But unlike other things that he couldn't make light of, he can't simply leave a missing wing in the past. Maybe he'll have to become a less witty person in general.

"You couldn't have left anyway." Finally Flint is looking at him. It makes him swallow.

"Physically?" He asks bitterly.

"No," Flint says with matter-of-fact conviction, "Same reason. You couldn't have left because you matter here, as I told you once before. You're perceptive. You knew this before the men showed it in this way. Nothing has changed."

Everything has changed. Silver has lost a body part. Flint has lost his partner and has withdrawn into himself. Silver has fallen for him somewhat. But he doesn't say that. In essence, what he said is right. Silver does matter to the men. Randall had been widely loved and occasionally pitied. He had had ladders to every part of the ship he frequented, and always a helping hand to carry one to another place if he needed to go elsewhere. Silver has stairs into the deepest holds and up onto the quarter- and poopdeck, because he is  _important_. It isn't fair, but it is true.

Silver lets his head hang, shoulders sagging down, pulled by the weight of his useless wings. He feels defeated. But there is something freeing in defeat. It does mean not having to fight anymore.

"Thank you," he says very quietly towards the floor.

Flint hears him, of course. "No need to thank me. I didn't put up the stairs."

And just like that, Silver's will to talk back is sparked again. But it is not so embittered now. It's almost playful, and certainly familiar, harkening back to a time when things didn't feel so important generally. "Of course you didn't. But did you order them built? That is the question. Did you strongly imply there would be consequences if they weren't?"

"I informed Muldoon that you would not be pleased if the carpenters went through with it."

Silver can tell from the caution with which Flint places every word that this is only half the story. "But what did you say would please _you_?"

Somewhere in the last few sentences Silver has found the confidence to look at Flint again. Flint has no such confidence at the moment. He is looking at his hands, where he is twisting a ring. But he does not look wholly uncomfortable – the corners of his mouth even twitch into a momentary smile. Then he leans back. "I said you were clearly not to be trusted with your own well-being, and that I could certainly see the merit in their plan. And that they would have to be prepared to make do with my appreciation for their work, as they weren't likely to get yours. There."

Silver ponders this for a moment. Then he starts making his way to the window seat. "As I said," he says. When he passes Flint he places a hand on his shoulder for a moment, leans in as close as he can without the canvas wing sweeping papers from the desk and whispers: "Thank you. You absolute bastard."

 


End file.
